


In The Place Where There Is No Darkness

by Grantairesatellite



Category: 1984 - George Orwell, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Addiction, Alternate Universe, Angst, E/R - Freeform, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self Loathing, Vague Suicidal Ideation, all amis will be in it somehow, les miserables/ 1985 au, or 1984/ les miserables au?, this won't be happy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 06:58:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3600582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grantairesatellite/pseuds/Grantairesatellite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drawing out of his thoughts, Grantaire looked down at the journal.</p>
<p>DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER</p>
<p>DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER</p>
<p>DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER</p>
<p>DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER</p>
<p>DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER</p>
<p>There was also an image of the man Grantaire had seen. His shaky hands and the smudged ink did the man no justice, yet still the fierce eyes bore into him. In another time, Grantaire would have called him a God.</p>
<p>A Les mis/ 1984 AU with Grantaire basically as Winston and Enjolras as Julia.<br/>You don't need to read 1984 to understand this or anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. journal

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Xander, (mtparnasse.tumblr.com) who is my beta, you are so fab!)
> 
> All the amis will be introduced, only R, Enjolras and Combeferre for now.  
> This will effectively follow the events of 1984 but I'll add some/ take some stuff for the purposes of this fic.  
> Obviously if you've read 1984 you'll know how this'll end, if you haven't, I hope you like it!  
> Comments very much appreciated as this is my first fic!

He settled down into the painfully stiff wooden chair that was in the small nook in the corner of the room. He supposed it was lucky; the previous tenant had torn down what he supposed must have once been a cupboard or a set of shelves. Maybe it had tempted him, this one spot where he could be invisible - so long as he was quiet and controlled his breathing, but then again, maybe he would have found some other way to rebel - to fuck up - whatever it was that he was doing.

Reaching toward the small desk that was crammed by the chair, he opened its draw and reached in. Taking a large breath, the acrid fumes from the oily victory gin he'd just had burning at his nostrils, the man fumbled for, and pulled out a leather journal. Its cover was a soft brown, the wrinkles of its age blending with the folds where it had been hastily pushed into the draw. The man stroked its cover, trying to remember the way every crease and ridge felt beneath the calloused pads of his fingers before opening it. He 'd bought it on a whim from an old shop in the Proletarian district, he had meant to use it to draw- this, of course, was not legal. He'd spent the first few days after buying it just staring. However, almost a week after its purchase, in a haze of victory gin, he'd sketched. The looming white pyramid of the Ministry of Truth, newspaper clippings, the children who lived down the hall: the things that his life was composed of. However, as of yet he hadn't dared to write in the journal. If pictures were feelings then words were thoughts- proof. Still, that very day the man's mind had been made. Removing an old ink pen from the pocket of his overalls, he began to write:

_4th April 1984, To the citizens of the past and future, anytime but now, greetings. I am Grantaire. They showed us a film today. Another one for another hate. It was the usual stuff, the gory violence of more successful battles. There was another clip of Lamarque that we were meant to hate. I did of course, I can’t help myself. I see his face and it’s like a key has been twisted in my back and all I can think is a white rage that consumes me. I came out of it quicker than the others though and when I came round I saw others who, like me, were still chanting and screaming... But the numbing hate didn't reach their eyes. There was a man, two seats to my left whose eyes blazed beneath his round glasses; he seemed to have been engrossed in everything Lamarque said. He had a trustworthy face: his eyes burned, yet were soft and surrounded by minute creases at either side, his mouth seemed like it would give you sincere comforting speeches whenever you most needed it. A name came to mind, Combeferre. I've seen him around the Ministry of Truth before, but I don't think he works there. I have no idea what he does. I just know I can trust him because of this dream - I think it was dream - that I'd once had. I'd heard his voice clearly, 'We will meet in the place where there is no darkness'. I don't know where that place is, I just hope I get there soon. Combeferre wasn't the only one I saw at the five minutes hate, in front of me a man threw a book at Lamarque's vast projected face._

For a moment Grantaire stopped writing as he thought about the man he had seen. He'd unnerved him with his beauty. Nothing in London was beautiful; Grantaire lived in a world of bleak greys and bleached fluorescent whites. This man was a direct contrast to everything he'd ever seen. He was a gleaming gold and a bloody red. His hair was like the reflection of dust on sunbeams, the red chastity sash around his waist the brightest thing he'd ever seen. Other people wore the red sash, but on this man the colour seemed to glow. Grantaire wanted to touch it, to hold on to this scrap of colour and never let go.

The straight line of the man's nose seemed to speak of a different time, the curve of his lips told of an age where people didn't crawl, crushed by others. A time where thought was tangible, and people were not slaves.

He hated him. Who was this man to make him think at all? A life filled with drudgery and drink suited Grantaire very much, it kept him alive. This man ignited an ember within him. The ember was what had made him buy the journal; the man was what made him write. Drawing out of his thoughts, Grantaire looked down at the journal.

**_DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER_ **

**_DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER_ **

**_DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER_ **

**_DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER_ **

**_DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER_ **

There was also an image of the man Grantaire had seen. His shaky hands and the smudged ink did the man no justice, yet still the fierce eyes bore into him. In another time, Grantaire would have called him a God. Fear seized him, paralysed him. Thoughtcrime was treason and he had put his on display without thought. Had he done this before in his sleep? Had he mumbled his crimes unconsciously? He was a dead man walking the instant he had put pen to paper. In a sudden fit of fear and desperation, Grantaire hurriedly began writing again, under the glaring sketch:

_Theyll shoot me i dont care theyll shoot me in the back of the neck i dont care down with big brother they always shoot you in the back of the neck i dont care down with big brother_

There was a rap at the door.


	2. Sink

Grantaire looked up with shock. He could only think that they had found him, the thought police. He knew he was dead the moment he'd gotten the journal, yet he thought he'd have more time. It wasn't like he'd do anything with it but he could at least write a little more; drink a little more gin, maybe even find out if the brotherhood was real.

'It’s no good,' He thought, 'What’s done is done. You were dead the moment you were born.'

He eased himself off the chair slowly, taking care not to irritate the ulcer on his ankle. With trembling hands, stiff from frenzied writing, Grantaire reached towards the door handle and twisted it hard - as if it was his own neck.

'Oh, hello.' It was Eponine.

Grantaire held his breath, desperate to keep in the sigh of relief that seemed ready to escape. The cameras could pick up on the smallest flicker of emotion; the most minuscule variation of breath frequency.

Neutrality, Grantaire thought, was an art.

'Hello, 'Ponine. What's wrong?’ No one ever really started a conversation unless they were forced to.

'It’s just that my dad's still at work, a committee meeting or something and the sink’s broken again. I really wouldn't trouble you Grantaire- comrade unless I had to.'

She would have continued talking, making hurried excuses if Grantaire hadn't stopped her. He didn't want to fix her sink. What he wanted to do was sink into a bearable haze of victory gin and sketches, but he liked Eponine. And he pitied her.

He recognised the dark circles beneath her weary eyes and the sallow sink below sharp cheekbones. She wasn't eating enough. By the look of her father and her siblings, they were getting her share of food. Grantaire tried to avoid Eponine more often than not - she reminded him too much of the ghosts from his past. Yet it was for this very same reason that he could never refuse her. He was a guilty man, and as said, he pitied her.

‘I’ll give it a look over, ‘Ponine, just lead the way,' Grantaire met her eyes as he added with a fleeting smile, ‘Don’t worry.'

He almost wished he hadn't when Eponine responded with a small pat of his arm and a grimace that hid tears. He didn't imagine Eponine received much comfort, her father was one of the most unpleasant men he knew and her siblings were the classic Party Loyalist prototypes. There was Azelma, not much younger than Eponine, but completely different both physically and mentally. Whilst Eponine starved, Azelma _thrived_. She received their father’s affection and her sister’s food no doubt. The indoctrinated message of party love seemed to radiate from her; she wore a red chastity sash already, and was a top student in her school. Azelma’s braided hair was neat and precise, seeming to go perfectly with her clear, russet complexion - not unlike that of clay. She was perfect for moulding. Meanwhile, Eponine’s hair reached her earlobes and was straggly and thick- covering her face, making it seem all the thinner.

Besides Azelma, there was also Gavroche and the two youngest Thenardiers; Grantaire had never learnt their names. Gavroche was a junior spy, as were his two younger brothers, but from what Grantaire could tell of him, Gavroche was happier with Eponine than at the JS meetings. He supposed that was a small comfort for Eponine, how alike her brother was to her. He was still a brat though, what child wasn't in this world?

As Grantaire walked down the length of the corridor with Eponine, the two chatted about work. Grantaire couldn't talk about his work at the Ministry of Truth, but he talked about his co-workers with her. In particular, as Eponine seemed interested in him and he too lived in Victory Towers, about Marius Pontmercy.

‘What’s his job then?’ Eponine prodded, looking up at Grantaire.

‘I haven’t talked to him too much, but I’m pretty sure he works in the creation of Newspeak with Prouvaire. Pontmercy sees what words aren’t necessary anymore and makes sure they aren't in the next edition of the dictionary. Absolutely fascinating I’m sure.’

Eponine nodded along to what he was saying, not interrupting except to interject ‘Oh yes.’ at the end, as well as to motion towards the door to her flat, which was already open.

As always, the interior of the Thenardier home looked squalid. There were five empty bottles of victory gin on the kitchen table, it disgusted Grantaire. It was a reminder of his own vice and, therefore, his own weakness. Grantaire thanked God, or rather Big Brother, that he didn’t have anyone relying on him. The floor of the small, open-plan flat, only slightly larger than his due to the extra occupants, was littered with dust and dried mud. However, there were obvious large sweeping strokes curving amongst the filth like a painting. Eponine tried.

Azelma was lying in an armchair with her eyes closed; she hummed to the newest song the Party had created for the upcoming Hate Week. Eponine ignored her and walked over to Gavroche who was wearing his Junior Scout uniform.

‘Hey Gav, I got Grantaire to come and fix the sink,’ Gavroche just glanced at Grantaire and nodded.

‘He doesn't talk much does he?’ Grantaire remarked. Eponine jerked her head to the side in affirmation and led him to the sink as she spoke, ‘I’m not too sure what’s wrong with it. I think it’s blocked but I…’ She finished the sentence with a wavy motion of her hands.

Giving a sympathetic smile, Grantaire reassured her, ‘Nothing I won’t be able to figure out.'

Then, picking up the spanner that Eponine had placed for him by the sink, Grantaire set to work silently.

After a few minutes of him probing at the sink, and Eponine watching on with a fidgety uncertainty, Azelma was the one to break the silence.

‘I’m going to my committee meeting,' she motioned towards her red sash as if to clarify, ‘See you in an hour or something. Nice to see you comrade.' She ended her fleeing signal of departure with a sharp nod towards Grantaire, and left the flat abruptly.

Once Azelma had left, Eponine seemed to be more at ease and offered to make her guest tea, chatting with the bored Gavroche. Whilst she made the tea she looked at Grantaire again, he was still busy with the sink. It was a long, lingering look that seemed to serve as a kind of affirmation to her. Her brow furrowed slightly and her upper-lip stiffened as she placed the cup of tea by where Grantaire was crouched on the floor, before walking over to Gavroche.

‘Gav, guess what I've got for you?' Gavroche looked up, feigning disinterest, 'I've been saving up our chocolate rations, and I want you to go and buy yourself some right now’.

The boy stared at his sister with an ounce of suspicion before giving her a fleeting grin and grabbing the ration cards from her loose fist.

As he left the house, walking quickly and steadily as if on a mission, Eponine walked towards Grantaire as though proud.

It was then that Grantaire noticed the Thenardier home too had a fault. The small kitchen was at such an angle that the camera had a blind spot around where the sink was, such mistakes were common in houses where Big Brother cared little. Trying his best to keep a semblance of indifference, Grantaire finished fixing the sink slowly before looking up at his host.

‘It was sweet of you to treat Gavroche like that. You’re a good sister, ‘Ponine,' She nodded at his sentiment before crouching beside him on the dirty floor.

‘Thanks for fixing the sink; it looks like you've done a good job. And thanks. For what you said. I try to be a good sister, but it’s easier to just give him food,’ Eponine looked him in the eye, her black eyes meeting his cool grey. Grantaire thought he saw a flicker of something in her eyes, a spark that seemed almost vicious in its intensity. An intensity which he didn't think Eponine had.

She continued speaking, ‘Especially now that the Party have raised chocolate rations, again.’ Grantaire’s head jerked slightly, before he peered down at Eponine’s hands which were wringing the loose fabric of her overalls. Slowly, and with intent, Grantaire moved his left arm (the one which was effectively invisible to the camera) and grasped Eponine’s thin hands with his own.

It seemed that he wasn’t alone.

‘Well now comrade, I shan’t keep you for much longer,’ Eponine rose suddenly and walked to the door, she opened it as he got up, wiping the dust from his legs as he did so, and said, ‘Once more, thank you. See you soon’.

Without a word Grantaire left the flat, not looking back at the skinny woman with large eyes whom he could call ‘Comrade’, and mean it.

Once he had gotten back to his flat, Grantaire thought about the significance of his encounter with Eponine. The day before, at work, he’d heard an announcement over the loudspeakers praising the party for being so successful. As a celebration the chocolate rations were ‘boosted’ to 2.5g a week. Grantaire knew what everyone else had forgotten. That the week before the chocolate rations had been 3g a week. He had to alter a newspaper article which suggested it that very day.

It seemed that not quite everyone had forgotten. There were others like him, others who recognised the hypocrisy and injustice of the Party. Eponine must have seen something in him, something which suggested that they were kindred spirits, alone together in their hatred for the Party.

If he hadn't been so thrilled to no longer be alone he would have chastised himself. If she had seen something within him, others may have too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once more to my fab beta Xander! This could have potentially been unreadable without your help and ideas :)  
> Stay tuned for the next chapter when... Grantaire goes to work! And people are introduced!  
> I've decided not to make it too similar to 1984, the characters would be way too ooc otherwise, so if you have read 1984 I hope this doesn't get too boring!
> 
> I'll update probably once every 2 weeks due to it being exam season, but intervals shouldn't be as long over the summer! (I hope).


	3. Bridge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my beta Xander!
> 
> Also sorry for not updating for ages! I'd like to say it was mostly exams but also sheer laziness. Hopefully there won't be as much of a gap with the next chapter, I have more of an idea for what I want to do etc.

Never one to fall asleep easily, Grantaire had spent the whole night thinking about his encounter with Eponine. He was conflicted. Here was someone who was potentially an ally, but... an ally against what? He could hate Big Brother as much as he wanted, he could draw and write in a notebook, and remember what the party wanted him to forget, but what would happen? He'd become an unperson if he tried anything at all, and now Eponine could be roped in too. They'd both die, or go missing, or whatever happened to the people carried off to the Ministry of Love at night. Nothing would change. Big Brother wasn't a man, or if he was he must have been immortal, he was a symbol; a show of how powerless everyone was against themselves. The telescreen droned quietly, yet ever present, as a backdrop to his thoughts. 

The telescreen could never be turned off, life would never change. Big Brother could never be turned off, life would never change.

Grantaire's thoughts repeated in this way until he found himself awake in the morning, seemingly having gone to sleep at some point during the night. It would calm him, repeating mantras until his thoughts cleared again. He knew this was what Big Brother wanted. He found that he couldn't bring himself to care.  
What woke him was the blaring screech that the telescreen speakers emitted at six am every morning.  
It was a Wednesday.  
He got up and instantly took a deep swig from the gin bottle by his bed, as long as you could still be efficient, the party didn't care how you got through your day.  
He lay on his back for as long as it took for the gin to start to take hold, and as long as he thought he could get away with on the cameras, before fluidly getting up. Passing by his hung up uniform, Grantaire walked to the sink and washed his face with a flannel. As he dragged it down his face he looked up at the small, greasy mirror. Neutral grey eyes met with his and he noticed how his mouth remained an unbroken line. Perfect. Nothing had happened yesterday.  
The cupboard by the sink held his few toiletries, including his razors. Grantaire had been hoarding these for months now, he only had two (one unused), but razors were becoming a precious commodity in the recent weeks. The party would decide, seemingly for no reason, that something would be unobtainable for a few weeks, or even months. Grantaire could only guess at why they did this, likely so they'd sell better later on.  
After shaving, using his old razor, Grantaire walked up to the telescreen. Whilst it had been playing the regular morning music, it suddenly switched over to the regular morning fitness woman.

‘Good morning comrades. Are we all ready for our morning fitness?’

Grantaire nodded robotically, his was a world of unresponsive response. 

‘Excellent. Now, do five jumps. Arms up in the air, comrades!’, her enthusiasm was rehearsed and cold.   
Grantaire did the exercises mechanically, ignoring the constant stiff pain in his ankle.

He did the usual morning routine of stretches and warm ups, blearily following the woman’s instructions with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.

‘Good job, comrades! Now for a real stretch. Everyone touch their toes- like so’. The woman bent in half like a piece of paper and touched the tips of her grey work boots. Grantaire winced, he hadn’t been able to touch his toes for years. He half-heartedly bent and touched his shins, hoping that would be enough.

‘Everyone, now. How are we meant to work as a society if we can’t even do our morning exercises together.’ She bent and touched her toes again, ‘Come on now!’

Once more Grantaire bent down, this time he put forward all of his effort. He made it to the tops of his ankles. 

‘When I say ‘everyone’ I mean it! Yes, that means you citizen 84391.’ Grantaire looked up from the ground at the sound of the number that had been drilled into him since birth. ‘Yes, you Grantaire. I know you can do better than that. I’m a mother of three and it’s no problem, what’s your excuse?’ This time the woman’s voice was stiffer, a little less rehearsed and a little more threatening. 

In one sharp movement Grantaire flung his torso down and touched his toes. He ignored the cracking sound.

‘Excellent 84391. See that wasn’t too hard, now was it?’ Grantaire, still leaning forward, hoped his hair would cover the grimace he couldn’t hide no matter how he tried.

With the morning exercises over, Grantaire took another swig of the gin straight from the brown glass bottle, ignoring his cup. It did little to ease the pain in his back but it did make his face a blank canvas once more. He rolled himself a cigarette, using little tobacco as it was uncertain if it would be rationed soon, shoved his feet in his work boots, and headed out the door.

As he walked along the corridor, passing by Eponine’s flat and not giving it a single glance, he tapped out his cigarette ashes. It didn’t make a difference, there was worse than tobacco ash on that floor already. 

He made it down to the bottom floor quickly and started his journey through London to the Ministry of Truth. There were buses going from Victory Towers to each of the ministry buildings each morning but Grantaire preferred to walk. With his hands in the oversized pockets of his overalls he crossed the road and headed for London bridge. The ministry was only a five minute walk from the other side. His head was mostly down as he walked, it was mostly down all the time, but every so often he would glance up. Everyone crossing the bridge was looking down too. They were all wearing the same navy overalls and the same blank expression on the same bowed heads. 

As Grantaire looked around the only changing, moving, alive thing he saw was the rushing brown water beneath the bridge. The Thames, not even Big Brother himself could change the course of that current. 

Though his head was up, Grantaire was lost in thought and didn’t notice a skinny young man run up to him. 

‘Hey!’ Marius Pontmercy grabbed him by the arm and immediately started talking. ‘Grantaire! It’s Marius, I mean of course it’s Marius- me- of course it’s me. We live in the same building for God’s sake. I missed the bus! Awful, I know, but to be fair I had a ton of papers to take in today, it’s a busy day in the Newspeak department.’ Marius’ face was flushed as if he’d ran from Victory Towers. Though, as Grantaire thought to himself,it could have just been from a lack of oxygen. 

‘Hi, Marius. I haven’t seen you in a while.’ It was odd, usually he wouldn’t even bother with Marius. He was just a stranger from his building, but with the mixture of Eponine and actually listening to him talk, Grantaire found himself actually wanting to have a conversation. There was something about him, a naive optimism that next to no one else had. 

‘Like I said, it’s been pretty manic in my department recently. I’ve been waking up early for the last two months! Anyway, how are things with you?’ 

Grantaire didn’t understand Marius, people didn’t talk. Not like this, not like they were friends. Still, he was doomed anyway. Fuck it. 

‘Good. The usual, you know.’ Grantaire was frustratingly stiff. He couldn’t remember how to make conversation and until now hadn’t cared. ‘How have things been manic? It’s been pretty alright over in my department.’

Okay, good that was a little more relaxed. People talked, it was alright. The Thought Police couldn’t get him for making small talk. Grantaire really hoped his anxiety didn’t show on his face. He wasn’t used to this kind of anxiety, fear was constant, but this was different. He wanted a friend. Why Marius? Just because he didn’t seem like Grantaire himself. He seemed real, and alive. Besides, he thought, if he could make Eponine happy by getting her closer to Marius, well, that would be good too. 

Marius was staring at him. It seemed as if he’d been talking for the past minute. Grantaire nodded, hoping that would mean something. It was speaking and listening that he needed to work on apparently. Marius smiled and nodded back. Alright, Grantaire assured himself, that was correct. He wasn’t sure what he nodded too, but it was clearly right for Marius. 

‘Oh! We’re here. Okay. Well see you later, Grantaire. Maybe lunch?’

‘Sure’ This was new. At least he didn’t have to sit with Thernardier today. 

Marius walked off down a winding corridor and Grantaire headed towards the lifts. Department of corrections was on the first floor and he had work to do.

After waiting a half a minute for the lift to arrive, Grantaire stepped in and asked the man standing next to him to press the right floor.

‘No problem’. Grantaire noticed the red sash dangling by the man’s waist and looked up. He saw a furrowed brow and a haze of gold hair. It was the man he’d drawn the evening before.


End file.
